Monday, April 29, 2013

Naropa Boyfriends



Naropa Boyfriends
Boulder Diary
How I Write Poetry &
Who I Learned From
Writing Poems
Family Portrait
Scrap Book
Another Day
Julius My Brother
Morning Poem


“nothing like a hot dish
of warm lips”
—Peter Orlovsky

Naropa a big Marketplace—
everybody is writing poetry

Allen says to his classes—
poetry is by itself nothing

I’m always at the mercy—
of cute young Rimbaud boys

I know what that means—
the great come-on routine

All these young guys—
hangin around Allen

Each night in Boulder—
goin to bed with some kid


“Talk we Split it’s—
all right, goin ways”
—Peter Orlovsky

Allen’s apartment becomes—
a youth hostel every night

They want to get in bed—
with the great queer poet

It’s okay with me cause—
I’ve been there done that

It’s okay with me cause—
by now it’s all pretty boring

I’m not turned on by—
Allen’s old ugly cock

Young guys can do him—
I could give a shit

They’re not interested—
in poetry just being famous

“Look at me, I went to bed—
with the great poet Ginsberg!”


“In 1957 Paris hotel room
I wrote my first 2 poems”
—Peter Orlovsky

I learned from Allen—
to always write it down

Always carry a notebook—
so you can drop it on paper 

I get a kick jotting down—
spontaneous flashes

Corso taught me to recognize—
funny speech word idea combos

Catullus natural talk about love—
Rimbaud for lightening action

Lorca for finding my duende—
WC Williams for reality track

Allen for spontaneous verse—
“First word, best word”


“Writing poems is
a sacred thing”
—Peter Orlovsky

Writing poems scary business—
sacred & yet profane too

A diary or a novel—
would make a lot more sense

One family all I ever want to know—
what good another soap opera?

The same old memory ramblings—
another bunch of normal lies

To breathe is just to sigh—
roll my eyes is all I can do

Rain & snow my only clock—
watching it thru the window

Grinding my teeth for lack of love—
the world a cold stove cathedral


“I love the foot steps—
of my family when
they walk thru the
house at night”
—Peter Orlovsky

I don’t like sorrow to hang—
down from my family tree

So I try to visit them—
as much as I can

I’m just a nameless asshole—
but they’re still my family

Looking into each other’s loopy eyes—
it’s sad but still we’re still here

Old age is a heart stab—
see what it does to faces?

No wonder they pull down—
the window shades so that

None of the neighbors—
can see what I see

All families are the same—
it’s just so fuckin sad


“beauty lies deep like
the little speck of dirt”
—Peter Orlovsky

Heaven’s closet—
what’s in there anyway?

I use my teeth and fingers—
to pry it open, saliva dripping

My broken fingernails—
flinging the closet door open

Spooks spillin out—
a rush of rumors too

What did I think was—
in there anything to know?

Then he comes out—
my idiot kid brother Julius


“a hungry rose cloud
will eat us up”
—Peter Orlovsky

The smiling shadow—
in my broken heart is

An unseen face—
hidden in some clay

Always a little stillness—
when I stop and think

What am I all about—
standing, sitting here alone?

A monument to fate is—
being erected in my pants

Getting on the bus—
everybody sees it


“No tears for Julius tonight
brother that left me young”
—Peter Orlovsky

He’s only 18—
goodlooking with a mop of hair

Gone, gone down the road—
such a strange crazy kid

He sits alone in the corner—
that faraway look in his eyes

I’ve worked in mental hospitals—
know the gloomy horror of it

At least he’s home with mother—
even tho she’s a zombie too

It runs in our family—
years pass, it just gets worse


“All I need is a mirror
for the rest of my life”
—Peter Orlovsky

Shaving in the morning—
my hairy ugly werewolf face

My eyes just empty holes—
only hoping to understand

Blinking neon sign shines—
down thru my bedroom window

Reminding me once again—
life is just a Grade-B movie

My life here in NYC—
another American beatnik 

Thank god I’m not a hustler—
selling my bod on Times Square


“Morning again,
nothing has to
be done”
—Peter Orlovsky

Morning comes—
don’t feel like doin nothin

Maybe I’ll write a poem—
or let a poem write me

Time for another joint—
let the show begin

There’s this elevator—
from my bed to the floor

Isn’t that paradise—
your own dream room-land?

Friday, April 26, 2013

The Talking Asshole


“Did I ever tell you about the man 
who taught his asshole to talk?”
—William Burroughs, NAKED LUNCH

Did I ever tell you about the man—
who taught his asshole how to talk?

Actually it was the other way around—
his asshole taught him to talk instead

He was really good at it—
farting away grand speeches on TV

It was unlike anything ever heard—
or smelled before such a shitty syntax!!!

His asshole talked with such fluency—
his colon was tres intelligentsia

He worked for this traveling carnival—
at first a novelty ventriloquist act

After awhile he started talking to himself—
his ass would ad lib & toss out gags

But his asshole got bored with all that—
eating through his pants out on the street

Shouting out it wanted equal rights—
all pouty & puckered up in farting jags

Bitching that nobody loved it & wanted—
to be kissed like any other pair of lips

The guy couldn’t stop his talking asshole—
it went on & on ranting day and night

You could hear it for blocks away—
people screaming for it to shut the fuck up

The guy threatened his asshole saying—
I’ll stick a fucking dildo in you, then what?

You’re the one that’s gonna shut up—
the talking asshole said back to the guy

I don’t need you anymore because—
I can talk and eat and SHIT if I want to!!!

After that the dildo shut him up good—
but when the guy had to shit, WATCH OUT!!!

So anyway, the talking asshole shut up—
cause one thing it needed was a pair of eyes

It trapped the guy though one day—
getting an organ transplant on the sly

Viola!!! The first talking asshole with an eye—
It walks!!! It talks!!! It can even see!!!

That’s when the asshole squeezed its cheeks—
and ran for an office in local politics

It started out just being Mayor of Shitville—
but you know ambitious Assholes can be…

Jaysus christ, pretty soon he was on TV—
CNN & FOX-News went hog-wild over him

He even stooped to conquer—
letting Rachel Maddow kiss his lips

Lady Gaga couldn’t wait to finger him—
getting her forefinger all the way up there

He bit it off with his razor hemorrhoid teeth—
Justin Bieber was gonna be fuckin next

The end result was simply horrifying—
all the world’s assholes suddenly revolted

A whole new bourgeois bunghole Bureaucracy—
had to be quickly invented right then & there

No time for any more dithering diarrhea—
after all, who’d been sitting there forever?

There on the THRONE day after day—
Kings, queens, peons, the usual gangsters

But who really knew the fine red line—
between life and death at the final end?

It was the worldly humble meek Asshole—
constantly taking care of the dirty shit

Empires come & go, States collapse—
but it’s the Asshole who rules in the end

Proud & tall & built like old Shit-houses—
lonely out there on the lonely prairies

Prim & proud, sleek marble rims for the—
Emperor Caligula’s fine wicked tender ass

Ah yes, it’s an altogether different history
once you start seeing things differently

So you ask me whatever happened—
to this guy’s troublesome Talking Asshole?

Listen closely, cause I’ll only fart this once—
it’s tres secret and truly hush-hush

Welcome to my ASSHOLE PLANET—
guess who sits on the Throne now?



“Members of Burroughs’s “Beat” generation
had drifted from place to place, always moving
and their writing was similarly disjointed.” 
—Sarah Smarsh, It Happened in Kansas

So it only makes sense that Burroughs’—
writing and visual art deal with motion

Setting paint flying at explosive speed—
one way of doing motion on canvas

Sitting there in Lawrence—
and writing it is one thing

But trying to write what’s moving—
that’s a totally different artform

Old representational methods—
didn’t work with Kansas landscapes

He turned to cut-up collages—
a new narrative technique was needed


A private asshole. As a private investigator I run into more death than the law allows. I mean the law of averages. The guy inside is about ready to reach a crescendo of amorous noises. I always find that if you walk in just as he gets off he can’t take a swing at you. My name is Clem Williamson Snide. When me and the house dick finally open the door with a passkey, the smell of shit and bitter almonds blows us away. We wait outside the hotel room for the cyanide capsule fumes to air out. They’d fucked until the capsules dissolved. A real messy love death. Another time I’m working on a routine case and have to take away twenty-three dead people. These things happen. I am a man of the world. Going to and fro and walking up and down in it. Death backs into you that way. Seems they always smell like cyanide, carrion, blood, cordite or burnt flesh. It’s like opium. Once you smell it you never forget. Industrial sabotage when a factory burns down is worse. I can walk down a street and get a whiff of death. It’s like opium smoke and I know someone is kicking the bucket.  It smells. I mean it has a special smell.

Monday, April 22, 2013

Flint Hills Evening


“The shadow crawls
up canyon walls”
—Badger Clark
“The Sky Blue Plains,”

The Flint Hills evening—
comes slowly down ravines

The rim rocks flush pink—
crawling night shadows

The cottonwood leaves—
quiver shiver like me

Do they anticipate—
what I know will happen?

The wind break sways—
knows what night brings

The Flint Hills get still—
more blue shadows come

After dinner we smoke—
drink some Johnny Walker

The stillness out there—
singing the same old song

Blow out kerosene lamp—
then to bed together

If only I say to myself—
it’ll be this way forever

Gay Cowboy Poetry


He was hard to get to know—
but then that’s the way it was

The harder the better—
a quiet kind of prairie love

Mostly just him & me driving—
out there on Kansas nights

Bought me a nice Stetson hat—
a pair of expensive boots

I never made a decent cowboy—
he didn’t seem to mind tho

He wanted somebody to—
know & love him way out there

OUT THERE different than—
livin in town back home

I can’t even describe it—
it’s like livin on the moon

Cowboy songs comin up from—
OK City on the radio

Cowboy commaraderie—
him & me out there 

Turnin me on to country music—
comin up from Oklahoma City

Hank Williams especially—

Out there in his ranch-house—
quiet Chase County nights

Kinda spooky like Z-Bar Mansion—
listenin to prairie wind outside

Lived with him for a year—
stoic Kansas cowboy dude

Rented the range out to—
young ranchers with families & kids

Saturday, April 20, 2013

Strong City


I didn’t much want to—
but like I couldn’t help it

Him waitin for me—
in his Chevy pickup truck

Waitin for me there in—
the high school parking lot

Smokin a cigarette—
after all that boring shit

The shit they put us thru—
punchin a fuckin clock

Gettin us ready for it—
shitty working class crap

There I stood lookin—
at him like I always did

He didn’t look away—
he said “Get in, baby”

We drove west outta—
town real slow on Sixth

Hank Williams on the—
radio from OK City

Suddenly I realized—
I was never gonna

Gonna be the same—
not with him anyway

Out past Hwy 50—
past the Truck Stop

He reached over—
grabbed my leg

Jaysus christ I—
fainted then & there

Talk about angels—
descendin' outta heaven

I was ready for it—
some wings to fly

Ready for anything—
he wanted me to be

Strong City Stud


I got bored waitin around for it—
not knowin if he was comin back

So I started cruisin Strong City—
kinda Slim Pickens tho dontchaknow

Mostly older retired folks—
not ranchin much anymore 

Then one Sat night I met this—
guy at the Longhorn Lounge

Started hangin around with him—
kinda the lonesome type

Young & discouraged—
divorced with ex-wife & kids

Strong City rodeo kid with—
tight fuckin bronco hips

Could go all night long—
bitin' me hard on the neck

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

Cowboy Poem


The say a picture is worth—
a thousand words

This one says it all—
that & another inch more

Skip the usual flowery—
old fashioned Cowboy verse

Nostalgic, closeted, coy—
shy cowpokes from Texas

My Strong City stud—
barely surviving Viet Nam

Scorched by the vision—
ever-dying youth slaughtered

Over there in the goddamn—
fuckin rotten SE Asia jungles 

So when he got back—
nothing really surprised him

He wasn’t bashful about men—
what he wanted I gave him

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Gay Cowboy Poetry


Well, what can I really say—
without getting all you know what

It’s embarrassing to talk about it—
knowin how most Kansas folk feel

I can’t really blame them—
it’s kinda shockin to me too

It never had happened to me—
fallin in love that cowboy way

But it did happen way back then—
right outta the clear blue sky

Falling with grace for him & me—
he gave me the wings to fly

Monday, April 15, 2013



Q: What frightens you?
A: Real toads in imaginary gardens.

Q: You being the toad?
A: Who else?

Q: And your novels and short stories?
A: The gardens.

Q: When did you first notice it?

A: Just skimming the top of any head I’d say it was LA CÔTE BASQUE.

Q: That’s when you realized…
A: That I was the Toad…

Q: The toad in the imaginary garden?
A: You got it, honey…

Q: How did you feel?
A: It wasn’t pleasant. But what did they expect? The high society ladies. Or even Perry Smith. I’m a writer. I use what I see & hear. Did they think I was listening to them for the fun of it?

Q:  What happened?
A:  What do you think? I was terribly ostracized—banned from High Society. The very same snobs & upper-crust elite that I’d catered to with The Black and White Ball, the endless hours of boring cocktail confessions that they just couldn’t wait to tell me all  about. All the tell-tale gossip about the Rich & Famous. 

Q: And?

A: All their kitschy bedroom secrets and smarmy hidden adulteries. The yachts lollygagging in the same old stultifying Mediterranean, the covered-up sex-scandals, the tacky divorces, the hushed-up murders, the inescapable usual boredom, the luxurious day-to-day ennui of it all.

Q: And?

A: That’s how I became the Toad in that Garden. But that wasn’t the first time. I had inklings & hints that I’ve been an evil ugly little Toad for quite a long time, honey.

Q: When was the first time?

A: Well, let’s see. I suppose it all goes back to my first novel—OTHER VOICES, OTHER ROOMS. 

Q: Your first imaginary garden?

A: Yes, I be a Toad all the way back then. I just didn’t know it, that’s all. 

Q: The way you deal with it, though, it’s always rather intriguingly imaginary, my dear.

A: I suppose so. Deceptively so. But that was the style back then—dontchaknow. Southern Gothic like Carson McCullers and Eudora Welty and Miss Faulkner. 

Q: You mean Deep South Decadence?

A: Perhaps I was somewhat of a closet case back then. At least a part of me was. Too pretty to be a boy like the New Orleans voodoo queen said in “DAZZLE.” 

Q: It came out in Joel the young kid in OTHER VOICES, OTHER ROOMS didn’t it?

 A: Yes, unconsciously I suppose. With Randolph up there in the window too. 

Q: Randolph was you?

A: I was both Joel & Randolph. Sometimes a writer can be writing a story — not realizing completely that he’s working out some problem that’s been troubling him. 

Q: Like what?

A: That a fictional character isn’t fictive at all. It’s the Writer himself… Like in a nonfictional novel.

Q: Like being too pretty to be a boy?

A: That & everything that goes with it, my dear. I could only hint at it in OTHER VOICES, OTHER ROOMS. If I had kept it up much longer then, none of my future books would’ve sold — not with the tres chilly climate back then.

Q: All the homophobic critics?

A: Well, duh. Look what happened to Gore Vidal.

Q: He blamed the straight critics for him not being as successful as you were.

A:  C’mon now, sweetheart. Miss Vidal only had herself to blame — that and the usual sour grapes routine.

Q: Well, if you were a critic today what would you say about what you’ve written so far?

A: Well, I’d probably say that Miss Capote certainly be quite familiar with horse manure, my dear.

Q: “Miss Capote”?

 A: Yes, MISS CAPOTE. She sure bitch a lot, honey…  Bitch, bitch, bitch. What a fuckin Bitch Queen!!!  Moan & Bitch, that’s all she do anymore. 

Q: Not a kind word for anybody? Not even herself?

A:  Oh, I suppose I could blame it all on Big Daddy. You know like Madame Sylvia “Hammer Films” Plath. Or blame Ted Hughes for not catering to her fucked-up whims.

Q: Are you in a bitchy mood now?

A: What do you think, hmm? I can’t help it if I’m a Drearie Dearie these days. Mere trifles, though really, nothing’s really important anymore. Not after IN COLD BLOOD.

Q: Are you really being honest?

A: Did I ever say I was honest? 

Q: All that nonfiction baloney… Didn’t you just to it for the moola? Those IN COLD BLOOD big bucks & film rights? 

A: Well…

Q:  C’mon, Truman. You couldn’t wait for them to exhaust their appeals & end up deader than doornails! So you could collect a million?

A: It was more than just a million, honey.

Q: Did you really fall in love with Perry Smith?

A: Well, I suppose Perry was more like the Leaper by the River Styx that Saint Julian came across. 

Q: How do you mean?

A: I shared my robe with him — because he was cold. And I kissed his rotten diseased lips — to show I cared for him. 

Q: And?

A: The hard Kansas rain was coming down on both of us — there in that dark Stygian Death Row Lansing Prison cell. We were both cold, shivering, lonely.

Q: And then what?

A: I couldn’t help myself. I had to comfort him somehow…